The Guilty Read online

  I fell into the couch as Amanda took off her coat and hung it up. I took deep, slow breaths, closed my eyes, smelled something sweet. There was a mess of dried blood congealed by the radiator along with the twine Amanda had cut from my wrists. She saw what I was looking at and said, “I didn’t have time to clean up. I called an ambulance as soon as I found you.”

  She was standing over me, her face a mess of confusion, fear and relief. “That’s the second time you saved me,” I said. “Or is it the third?”

  “I don’t care,” Amanda said, leaning down. Her hands rested on my thighs, sending waves of electricity up my body. “I’m sorry for leaving the other night. But when I saw you and Mya outside, I—”

  “Stop,” I said. “You don’t have to explain anything.” I wanted to stroke her hair with both hands, to hold her face with unscarred palms. “About Mya, it was nothing, it…”

  “Stop. I don’t want to talk about her. Not now, not ever.” I nodded. She was still wearing her work clothes—a smart black skirt, a white blouse under a fitted black vest. I remembered the first time I met her—Amanda sitting in her car, wearing a simple tank top fit to her toned body, the floor of her Toyota strewn with empty fast-food wrappers. There weren’t many girls like her, who could look stunning both in elegant work clothes and pajamas. Who looked beautiful when they tried, and even more so when they didn’t.

  I mustered up some strength, leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips. She was slightly surprised, but after a moment she pressed back hard. I could taste her strawberry lip gloss, felt her hand as it came up to cradle my face. The throbbing in my head and my hand quieted to a dull ache as Amanda straddled my legs, supported her body against my chest and kissed me harder and more passionately than she had in a long time.

  Adrenaline began to kick in, and keeping my injured hand to the side I began to slide my good hand along her body. Up her side, across her chest, between her breasts. I felt her heart beating faster, her breath quickening. She ground against me, started to kiss my neck. I brought my right hand up, careful not to flex it too much, but Amanda took it and held it against the sofa.

  “This stays here,” she said between ragged breaths. She raised her arms and eased off her vest. I eased off her blouse with my good hand, pressed my palm against her bare skin, ran it up toward her bra, then underneath, cupping her warm breasts in my hand. Amanda sighed, reached behind and unhooked the clasp, letting the clothing fall free.

  She stood up, giving me a moment to gaze at her body. A moment later my pants and her skirt were undone and she managed to slip off my boxers. Amanda eased on top of me again until I was inside of her. We both groaned and began to move back and forth, up and down.

  “I want to be so close to you.” She sighed, her movements growing faster and faster. “I love you, Henry.”

  “I love you, too,” I managed to gasp, as we rocked violently for another minute before collapsing onto the couch, Amanda’s sweat-glistened body rising and falling against mine. Our lips found each other one more time, and then we fell asleep intertwined, as all the pain faded away.

  CHAPTER 34

  Jack O’Donnell sat at his keyboard, fingers flying as he typed away on the only story that currently mattered to him. When he told Wallace he was going to write it for the Gazette—they had to cover it, after all, as the crime was committed by a man who’d already killed four people—there was no argument, only a solemn nod and an assumption that the most accurate and unbiased story would be written. Wallace did point out that the Gazette would have an exclusive—the only paper in town to interview the victim, Henry Parker. All the other news organizations would simply have to credit Jack’s piece when they quoted from it.

  Jack had arrived at the hospital less than ten minutes after the ambulance arrived with Henry. He’d watched them unload the stretcher. He saw Amanda leap out, doing her best to hold back tears. Jack offered a terse hello, then asked how Henry was doing. She said they didn’t know, that he needed a CAT scan and that his hand was hurt something bad. Amanda looked at Jack in a way that made his stomach feel hollow, like somehow he’d been responsible for the attack.

  He waited as they made sure there was no cranial bleeding, no fractures. When the tests confirmed a grade one concussion Jack sighed in relief, said goodbye to Amanda, and left. He went straight back to the office, locked himself in a conference room, pulled a flask of whiskey from his pocket and drank until his eyes were ruddy and the tears of frustration were sufficiently dammed up.

  A year ago, when Henry had recovered after being shot, Jack had viewed him merely as a young reporter with potential. It was a professional relationship, nothing more, one that could be severed at any time for a multitude of reasons. Over the past twelve months, however, Henry had become more. For a man in his sixties who hadn’t spoken to his own off-spring in more than a decade, Henry Parker was the closest thing to a son Jack O’Donnell had ever known.

  Jack was a legend. He knew this, but did not brandish his legacy like some vulgar bayonet. Instead he cloaked himself in it, remembered it every time he began a story, every time he followed a lead. Jack had torn through three marriages because he simply could not perform the duties most women expected of a husband. He would not come home when they pleased. He would not offer comfort or solace with any regularity. He stayed out late, drank often, was surly and emotionless depending on how a story was evolving. Every relationship was a bell curve. Passion and romance rose to a peak, then fell into a trough until they flatlined. And when that happened, it was time to move on.

  But it made him a great reporter. He devoted himself to the craft, and in doing so became something more than just a newsman. Within Henry, Jack could see the same potential. He would have to make sacrifices. Sacrifices ordinary men could never make. Family, friends, even some happiness. But by doing so Henry would become what Jack believed he could be: someone who made a difference. Someone whose work lived on.

  Amanda seemed like a nice enough girl, yet every loose thread a man had was one that could be pulled. One that could be leveraged. If a man had nothing, he risked nothing, and would stop at nothing. A woman could hold him back. Love could make him soft. Jack was unsure if he’d ever truly been in love, though if he had he would have retired ages ago, spent his elder years in some pastel retirement community, flitting about in golf carts and wearing pants with shameful plaid designs. Eating lunch at “the club” with the other retirees before they went out and shot a hundred and fifty on the back nine. That was no life for him. That was no life at all.

  He gulped down another hot sip of coffee, laced with just enough Baileys to give it a little kick, keep his blood pumping. He typed in his byline and got ready to send it off. It would be in tomorrow’s national edition. He knew many people thought this killer was some sort of twisted hero, knocking off people whose deaths would somehow benefit the common good. They didn’t think about the monster beneath, just what it took to pull a trigger and end someone’s life. The families shattered. The soullessness of it all.

  Jack was too old to go chasing villains. That was a job for a younger man, one ready to claim the mantle for his own. And Jack knew that if Henry kept his head on straight, snipped off any loose threads, the story would be fully told. And he could only hope it was told before the next victim fell.

  CHAPTER 35

  I tossed and turned the whole night, every position bringing a new bolt of pain. Whether it was my hand, my head, or Amanda accidentally kneeing me in the groin, I would have had a better night sleep covered in honey and stuck in an ant farm. Amanda didn’t wake once. I tried to be jealous, but watching her sleep soundly, all I could do was smile.

  After making love we fell asleep for an hour. When we woke, I threw on a pair of boxers, Amanda slipping into cotton underwear and one of my T-shirts that came down to her knees. We fell into bed and wrapped our bodies around each other, my head on two pillows and numbed by two aspirin, my hand stretched above my head to prevent undue pres
sure from ripping the stitches.

  When the sun came up, I blinked the crust from my eyes and went to the bathroom. After peeing for what felt like an hour, I turned the water on for a shower.

  “You’re not supposed to shower for forty-eight hours,” Amanda mumbled from the bed.

  “Crap, I forgot. Good thing I’m all sweaty from last night, I’ve always wanted to smell like a hobo at work.” Though Amanda’s face was mushed into a pillow, I saw the edge of a small smile.

  I got dressed, and pulled out the note Agnes Trimble had written me yesterday. My stomach clenched as I wondered if the killer was watching me from the window. Watching Agnes. Watching Amanda.

  I took out my cell phone and called Curt Sheffield.

  “Hey, Henry, how’s the noggin feeling?”

  “Feels like I went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson circa 1989.”

  “Damn, that’s bad. Don’t worry, give it a few years and you’ll be biting off ears and threatening to eat people’s children.”

  “Those are some nasty side effects.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Listen, Curt, I was wondering if you could get someone to watch Amanda. Just while I’m gone during the day.”

  “Bro,” Curt said, laughing. “Look out your window.”

  Confused, I pulled open the window with my good hand and poked my head out. Below me I could see the sidewalk and the building’s entrance. Parked right in front was a blue-and-white squad car. I could see two officers inside. And I swear I could make out the outline of a donut.

  “They’ll be on your ass every morning and night for the next week. You got a private escort to and from work, as does your ladyfriend. You decide to shop for groceries, go to the Chinese laundry mat during the day, that’s all you.”

  “Thanks, Curt, I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t thank me. Orders came down from Chief Carruthers’s office. Guess there are people who want you to stay alive.”

  “I’ll be sure to send Carruthers a fruitcake.”

  “No fruitcake. His in-laws send one every Christmas and he chucks it. Later, Henry, give me a ring if you need anything.” I hung up, then dialed the number Agnes Trimble had given me for Largo Vance. Hopefully Vance was an early riser. The phone picked up on the very first ring.

  “Yes, who is this?” a high-pitched voice croaked out.

  “Hello, is this Professor Largo Vance?”

  “If this is Jehovah’s Witness, then no. If it’s anyone else, depends who’s calling.”

  “Mr. Vance, my name is Henry Parker. I’m a reporter with the New York Gazette and I was given your name by Professor Agnes Trimble—”

  “Agnes! I haven’t seen that minx in years.” There was a moment of silence as I tried to think of what to say. “Oh, come now, Mr. Parker, don’t be offended. I mean that with the highest compliments. Agnes is a randy little minx, she and I go way back.”

  “That’s, um, wonderful. Anyway, Mr. Vance, if you have a few moments today, I’d like to talk to you about Brushy Bill Roberts.”

  This time the silence came from Largo Vance’s end. His response came sputtering out. “How fast can you be here?”

  “Um, I don’t know where you live, Mr. Vance…”

  “3724 Bleecker. Be here in half an hour.” He hung up.

  “Who was that?” Amanda asked. She was sitting up in bed, clutching a pillow in her arms.

  “A potential source Professor Trimble gave me yesterday,” I said. “An old professor. I think he has some more information on the Billy the Kid lead.”

  “Henry,” she said, “please…be careful. Just yesterday you were in the emergency room and…”

  “I know that.” I went to the bed and sat down next to her. I took her hand in my good one, raised it to my lips and kissed her fingers. “I promise I’ll be careful. There are policemen downstairs who are going to watch you, just to make sure this lunatic doesn’t come after us again. If you go anywhere other than work, you know Curt’s number. Call him.”

  “This lunatic killed four people,” she said. “If he wants to kill, he’s going to get them.” I let that sink in, knew she was probably right.

  “Call in sick today. Just this once. I have to go talk to this guy Vance. I have to.”

  “Then go,” Amanda said. “The sooner you go, the sooner you get back, the less time I have to spend worrying about you.”

  “Listen, that guy wouldn’t have attacked me if he didn’t have something to hide. He has an entire city police force looking to draw and quarter him. A newspaper reporter doesn’t pose that much of a threat, comparatively.”

  “If he was willing to break into our apartment and do what he did, it must be something awful he wants to keep a secret.”

  “That just means I’m going to find it,” I said. “I’ll call a locksmith, have him change the locks and get a security system installed.”

  “This apartment?” Amanda said. “That’s like getting rims on a 1987 Yugo.”

  “Now that sounds like one crunked-up car. Don’t worry about me,” I said. I was having trouble pulling a shirt over my head, so Amanda came over to help. “I’m Mr. Incredible.”

  “Well, please ask Mr. Incredible why he needs help getting dressed. In the meantime Lois Lane would like it very much if he looks both ways before he crosses the street.”

  “Surely will. Besides, you’d make a sexy-ass Lois. My phone will be on if you need anything.”

  “Just remember not to open it with that claw of a hand.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And Henry?” Amanda said. I turned to her, smiled, but the smile quickly faded when I saw the look on her face. “Be careful. I can’t say it enough.”

  “I will,” I said. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I left on that sentiment. I nodded to the cops parked outside. They gave half nods back but otherwise did not acknowledge me. As I walked, I saw one plainclothes follow about ten yards behind me while the other followed in a squad car. When I entered the subway, plainclothes followed, staying at the other end of the car, pretending to read a copy of one of those free newspapers that people toss onto the tracks and end up clogging the drainage systems.

  I got off at Bleecker Street, picking up and swallowing a cup of lukewarm coffee and two more aspirin on the way. I buzzed an L. Vance at the given address, an elegant brown brick town house with a rusted front gate.

  The buzzer granted my entrance, and I took a recently painted elevator to the third floor. When the elevator door opened, a man that had to be Largo Vance stood in the doorway. He’d been waiting for me.

  “Henry Parker,” he said. “Largo Vance. Get inside. Now.”

  Vance had a long gray beard, gray hair swept back in a less-than-neat ponytail. His overalls were covered with dried paint. What looked like a pound or two of cat hair had dried in the paint. I could smell fresh—and some not so fresh—kitty litter emanating from inside.

  He ushered me inside, peeked around the hall (presumably to make sure no black helicopters had followed) and closed the door. A brown-and-gray striped cat snaked between my legs, rubbed itself against my jeans. Soon he was joined by another cat, and one more to complete the whole set.

  “Don’t mind them,” Largo said. “That’s Tabby, Yorba Linda and Grace. Say hello, babies.”

  The cats did not say hello.

  I followed Largo through a hallway to a small living room, where nearly every square inch was covered in either cat paraphernalia or large well-worn books, history and a few paperback novels whose spines had given out long ago. Largo sat in an overstuffed La-Z-Boy and beckoned me to a leather couch across from him.

  I took a seat and minded the stench. Two more cats appeared. I couldn’t tell if they were the same ones, new ones, or the first three had simply spawned in the last minute.

  “So what brings you here about Billy Bonney?” Largo said. A cat leapt onto his lap and Largo began to scratch its chin absently.

&
nbsp; “Not Billy Bonney,” I said. “Brushy Bill Roberts.”

  “Same difference,” Vance said. “Now go on.”

  “I, uh…have you heard about the recent murders? Athena Paradis? Several others who were killed by a man using an old Winchester rifle?”

  Largo shook his head. “I don’t read the newspaper.” This was going to be harder than I thought.

  “Well, in the last week and a half, somebody has been—”

  “I’m playing with you, kid. I may not know how to do the Google but I don’t live under a rock.”

  “So you know that Billy the Kid’s Winchester rifle was stolen from a museum in Fort Sumner.”

  Largo paused. “That, I did not know.”

  “But you know of Fort Sumner and the legacy of the Kid.”

  “I’m very well aware of the history of that town, and of Mr. Bonney. I’ve visited many times. I haven’t set foot in that museum in years, though. But I do recall having a fine conversation with the proprietor—Rex is his name, I believe. Unfortunately the last time I visited was over ten years ago, and I left under less than pleasant circumstances.”

  Suddenly the cat bared its teeth and jumped off his couch, leaving several red claw marks on Largo’s hand. He rubbed it, then noticed the tape covering my hand.

  “What happened to you there?”

  I held up the hand for him to see. “The man I’m coming to talk to you about, he came to see me yesterday.”

  “I take it he also left under less than pleasant circumstances.”

  “You could say that.”

  “So, Mr. Parker. It’s been several years since a journalist has taken any interest in what I’ve had to say. And even then they didn’t really take much interest in what I had to say.”

  “Wait,” I said, “back up. What do you mean ‘the last time’?”

  “Back when I was trying to get something done about that infernal and misplaced Bonney grave, and they dismissed me like some…loon. It’s not quite so easy to secure federal funding when you threaten to reveal national history as nothing more than bunk.”